Are you Happy?
by bones-son
Summary: Wash has a dream that leads him to wonder why he's here. Caboose, as always, is there to lighten the mood. No slash. Horrible summary ugh.


"Sync?"

"Sync!"

"Move!"

He could still feel the sharp impact of the bullet tearing through his armour and into his back, the confusion and betrayal, the sadness and anger. He shouted out and fell to the ground. He felt his back and chest, but the pain was gone suddenly. He looked up to see South standing in front of him, crumpling as a bullet went through her. The bullet had come from his own gun. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding it.

"South!" it wasn't his voice

"How could you? You killed her" North looked up at him accusingly. "YOU KILLED HER. TRAITOR."

Wash backed away. "No, she shot me…I didn't…I swear."

"YOU SHOT HER. TRAITOR."

_Traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor traitor._

The voices filled his mind. He grabbed his head.

"Why didn't you come after us?" York stood next to North. "It's your fault we're dead."

"Yeah, thanks asshole. Because of you, they shut the whole Project down." South

Then the pistol was in his hand again and he couldn't stop his finger from pulling the trigger. First North fell, then South, and York, and Maine, and Wyoming, and Carolina, and lastly Connie.

"You're a failure Epsilon." The Director kicked him to the ground. "Why did you have to kill yourself? The Project could have been a success!"

"It was doomed to fail!"

"IT'S YOUR FAULT."

Wash stat upright in bed, gasping. He looked left to right, realizing he was back in his cot in Blue base. He sighed and rubbed his face, his fingers quivering. He drew his knees to his chest and hugged them tightly. Nightmares weren't new to him, but it didn't mean he ever got used to them. Before the implantation of Epsilon, he had the nicest dreams, of his home and friends and of course those weird dreams that left you wondering why the heck you had them. He never had dreams like that anymore. His dreams were always nightmares now, usually of Project Freelancer or of Epsilon and Alison. He dreaded them. They left him exhausted and empty. When he had been in the psychiatric ward, he would stay up for days and stare at the ceiling, too afraid to sleep, until the nurses would sedate him into unconsciousness. It wasn't as bad anymore, now that the Project was gone and he had found his new friends, the Reds and Blues, but it didn't stop them from plaguing him every now and again. He knew they scared Tucker and Caboose too. He knew that sometimes he would scream and he'd catch them peeking concernedly into his room. He didn't mean to make them afraid, but he couldn't stop his mind from trying to force the horrible memories of his past onto him.

It was a warm night, but Wash was cold. He'd gotten used to being cold.

He stood up and walked into the kitchen, knowing he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep now.

He filled a pot with water and sat down at the counter as he waited for it to boil, his head in his arms. Anger filled him. He hated them, everyone in charge of the Project. He hated the Director. He hated all of them, Command and the UNSC and the Counselor. They'd done this to him. They'd had another being kill itself inside of him. They'd let his family tear itself to pieces and kill themselves. They'd brought these nightmares onto him. But mostly he hated himself. He hated that he wasn't able to feel the way he once had. He hated his cold demeanor and all the horrible things he'd done. He hadn't shown remorse to York and North's deaths. He'd killed South. He'd let Maine die. Despite doing his best to be funny and empathetic, he knew he'd never regain the innocence he'd once had.

During the day, he could busy himself helping Caboose, or having Tucker run drills and trying to keep the Reds in line, but at night, when the canyon was silent and he was the only soul awake and nightmares invaded his mind, at night he would sit up and wonder what it was all for. The world had so many chances to kill him, so many chances to end it, and yet here he was, despite all the awful things he'd done, with a few sim. troopers and spent his days keeping them under control, trying to keep them alive. Why was he here?

Why not York? York had been a skilled soldier. He'd been funny and loved by everyone. North had been kind and understanding. Maine had been fearless and strong. Connie had been smart and cunning. South had been ruthless, but she got things done. And yet here he was, the naïve younger soldier who'd been number six on the leaderboard. What had he done that he deserved to live and they didn't?

Wash was snapped out of his thoughts by Caboose walking into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the back of his head.

When Caboose finally noticed Wash staring at him, he smiled. "Hello Agent Washingtub."

Wash relaxed a bit. "What are you doing up, Caboose?"

Caboose shuffled. "Couldn't sleep. Tucker snores. Is there any food?" He noticed the pot of water on the stove. "Agent Washingtub…is the water supposed to be coming out of the pot?"

"Shit." Wash stood up and briskly walked over to the stove and pulled the water off the heat. He poured the coffee grounds into the pot and then strained the mixture into a mug.

Caboose watched him thoughtfully. "What are you doing up?"

Wash stirred the coffee for a while before answering. "Couldn't sleep."

"Did you have a bad dream?"

Wash sighed. "Yeah, I did."

Caboose opened the fridge and came back out with a yoghurt. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Bad dreams…I know they're not good." Caboose took a bite.

Wash stared at his coffee. He didn't even like the bitter stuff.

"They make you sad. The days after you have bad dreams you're sad. I see you staring at the mountains, and you don't make Tucker run as hard."

"They just…tire me out. I'm sorry." Wash said helplessly. He didn't look up from his coffee.

Caboose shook his head. "They make you sad. You look like you're seeing ghosts. Sometimes, when Tucker surprises you, you look at him like he's someone else, like you're seeing a dead person. Or when Grif and Simmons argue."

Wash swallowed hard and looked over at the younger soldier. "I'm sorry if it frightens you. Sometimes I can't help it…I…" he trailed off, unable to find the words to make Caboose understand. He didn't understand it himself.

"I don't get frightened. You look frightened."

Wash realized he was frightened. Sometimes he'd look at Tucker and his brown hair would turn him into York. Grif and Simmons would become North and South. When he had nightmares he couldn't help but be reminded of his old life. It haunted him.

Wash drank the cooling coffee. It was so bitter.

"You know we're all friends, right, Agent Washington? We wouldn't be here alive if it weren't for you."

Wash smiled. That was true. He knew that without a leader, the Blue team would have derailed in a matter of minutes and Sarge would be back to his old ways, back in his imaginary war.

"I think it's time to go back to bed Caboose."

Caboose nodded and threw away the yoghurt and put his spoon in the sink.

Wash poured the rest of his coffee out rinsed the mug.

Wash guided Caboose back to his and Tucker's room. Caboose turned around. "Would you read me a story?"

Wash smiled. "Sure. Which one?"

Caboose sorted through his collection and pulled out one he'd never had Wash read before, "The Ugly Duckling."

"I haven't read this in a long time." Wash observed.

"I've never read it."

"Really? It's a classic."

Caboose got into the cot across the dark room from Tucker's. Wash sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the book.

"It was lovely summer weather in the country…"

Caboose listened intensely and appeared to be very intrigued in the story.

"…Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing; for he did not know what to do, he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He had been persecuted and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, 'I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.'" Wash finished.

Caboose sighed happily and hugged the book to his chest. "That was a good one."

Wash nodded.

"You know what Washington? The ugly duckling reminds me a lot of someone."

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"You." Caboose answered simply. "Are you happy, Wash?"

Wash stared at him, not expecting the question. He rubbed his face and looked up to the ceiling. "I'm…" As much as he willed himself to answer yes, yes I'm happy, why wouldn't I be? he couldn't bring himself to. "I'm happier than I was."

Content with this, Caboose patted the sheets, a motion for Wash to pull the covers over him. Wash did so and ruffled the young soldier's hair. "Good night. Don't get up again."

"I won't. Good night." Caboose yawned and turned over.

Wash walked out of the room and shut the door. He went into his room and sat on his own cot for a long time, thinking.

Was he happy? He supposed so. And then he wondered, when had he been really happy? When he was a freelancer? Sort of…he'd had friends and was a top ranking soldier, but he had never really fit in. He'd been treated as a rookie and acted like one, and as a result was subject to jokes and jeers. After Epsilon…he hadn't really felt at all. But there was a time, back at home, before he was supposed to be inside for dinner, he had run in the summer grass toward the sun, laughing, his family's old dog trailing behind him. He would go down to the stream barefoot and watch the transparent fish swim like silvery sprites. The sun gleamed and twinkled on the surface of the water and the warm breeze would pull on his hair and he'd close his eyes and spin around, his arms reaching up, up towards the pastel sky.

Wash didn't think he could ever reach that level of happiness or contentedness ever again, but he could come close to it. Here, with the Reds and Blues, he didn't have to prove himself or constantly be harassed by authorities and wasn't forced to fight anyone. He was accepted and he'd found a place among these other broken soldiers. He knew that all the Reds and Blues were not right in their own ways; otherwise they would not have been simulation troopers. They didn't have a correct place to be and neither did he. They were all fragments, but together they made a whole.

Satisfied, he lay down onto his cot and was grateful for Caboose's insight. He supposed, in his own way, he was a bit like the ugly duckling. He'd found his own form of a family and euphoria.


End file.
